Sherlock Blumenthal
by Cowbelle
Summary: Sherlock tries his hand at molecular gastronomy after finding one of John's recipe books.
1. Prologue

So Sherlock was bored. Not shoot the wall bored, not yet, but well past his eyeballs in treacle stage. He hadn't had a case in _days._ What was wrong with the criminal underworld? He was reaching the stage at which he would take literally anything. Bakery robbery? Yes. Open and shut domestic murder? Most definitely. He needed someone to sigh at, and if he used John he was unceremoniously shoved into the doghouse. He flopped dramatically down on the sofa, only for his forehead to make contact in a very painful manner with one of John's inane cookery books. He scowled as he moved to throw the offensive object across the room, but stopping as he saw the title. In Search Of Perfection. _per·fec·tion_

_[__per-__fek__-sh__uh__n__]__noun_

_the highest degree of proficiency, skill, or excellence._

This could be interesting.

John couldn't cook. God knows he'd tried, but he couldn't. He had more books on the subject than Sherlock had rooms in his mind palace, but damn it all he just couldn't do it. He'd tried Chinese, Italian, Japanese, French, Spanish, Thai, and Ethiopian. He just wasn't patient enough, and with a tall, and sexy Sherlock roaming around, John found it easy to get distracted.

Sherlock was still held rapt by the book when John came home that evening.

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you..? Oh my god. Is this for real?" John giggled upon seeing his husband so wrapped up in something he had himself declared "mundane, John, mundane and not worth my time or yours".

"Sssshhh shut up, John!" Sherlock said, not looking up, "This man is as close to genius as chefs can come."

"Well if it keeps you busy…" John murmured moving over to Sherlock, kissing his temple before retreating to the kitchen.

"Tea would be lovely, John." Sherlock called in.

"Tosser," John grinned, setting another mug on the counter as he did.

"John," Sherlock said, sidling into the kitchen, "Do you like treacle tart? And ice cream, naturally."

Well. That was marginally unexpected, that coming from the man who loves and lives with Sherlock Watson-Holmes.

"I…uhm. Yes?" John said. He deposited a mug of tea next to Sherlock, who instantly picked it up, cradling it in his hands and relishing the warmth of it.

Sherlock beamed. "Brilliant. Take away?"

"Lovely. Thai?"

With bellies full of greasy noodles and curry, mouths still tasting of beer, the two drifted upstairs to John's room. John felt a small wave of pleasure as Sherlock held him close, one arm tucked around his waist. He slipped a hand up Sherlock's back and tangled it in his hair, chuckling at the purr that came from Sherlock as he did so.

The next day John rolled over in bed to see merely a Sherlock shaped dent where his sweetheart should have been. After hearing some muffled curses coming from the kitchen he ambled downstairs to see Sherlock standing in a cloud of flour. As the mist settled he walked over to the taller man and scrubbed a hand through his curls to dislodge the flour that had settled there and was aging him by about twenty years.

"Hey," John said quietly.

"'Lo," Sherlock smiled, "You said you liked treacle tart."

"That I did," John said, shrugging on his jacket, "Try not to blow up the kitchen, yeah?"

"Come now John, would I do a thing like that?"

John's giggles carried him all the way down to the street and left Sherlock alone in the flat.


	2. Treacle Tart

Sherlock was utterly engrossed in the book, when Mrs Hudson popped her head around the door at noon he barely looked up, and certainly didn't mention the deal she'd made with Mr Chatterjee. One that was probably illegal if we're being honest.

He stood up and set about making pastry as soon as she'd gone. The first batch went awfully, either crumbling in his hands or turning into a soggy lump. The next was better, only slightly crumbly. But this was a search for _perfection, _and the third batch was just that. Sherlock found that he liked baking. The tactile sensation of pastry between his fingers was intensely pleasing, and the precision required was highly scientific.

Next came the tart filling. This was immense fun, watching the golden syrup pour from the tin, smoothly at first, becoming more erratic and drippy towards the end.

So Sherlock stirred and whisked and "baked blind" which is a terribly misleading term. After he'd done all that he returned to the book to check on the ice cream recipe.

A little later he'd made his decision. According to Mr Blumenthal, dry ice was easier and safer but liquid nitrogen gave better results. And if this was to be a true search for perfection, well he'd have to go with the best.

_Liquid nitrogen. ASAP. –SH_

The reply came almost instantly.

_On it. –Molly._

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time to his "home from home", and Molly was waiting for him at the top.

"I had it sent around to the flat, thought it might be easier for you."

Sherlock sighed but smiled politely, "Thank you, Molly."  
"What's it for Sherlock?" Molly stammered, "The uhm…liquid nitrogen that is."

"John." Sherlock beamed before dashing down the steps and back to his flat. No. The supermarket first, he reminded himself. Out of eggs.

"Naturally," Molly muttered sullenly to no one, "Always is."

Sherlock was cheerfully whisking eggs and cream when John got home that evening, a treacle tart baking in the oven.

"Hey love." John said when he got into the kitchen.

"John!" Sherlock looked up and grinned.

"Dare I ask what you're doing?"

"Oh I'm making ice cream," Sherlock explained, gesticulating wildly and flicking custard everywhere, "Should be ready in a moment. get that tart out while you're on your feet."  
"You do know that ice cream doesn't go hard instantly right?"  
"What? Not even if it's _really _horny?" Sherlock chuckled, "No, not normally it doesn't. I have found however, that liquid nitrogen has much the same effect on ice cream as my lisp does on you. Hard instantly." Sherlock smirked.

"Not instantly," John protested half-heartedly.

Sherlock just chuckled.

"Whatever you thay." He purred, voice dropping about three octaves.

"Oh shut up."

Sherlock jumped up and grabbed some heavy-duty gloves and goggles from the kitchen cupboard.

"Now, you may want to retire to the living room. It's about to get…chilly."

John nodded and left the room, shaking his head slightly. Back in the kitchen Sherlock had opened the canister and was pouring it into the bowl, stirring wildly with his other hand. Not ten seconds later he was enthusiastically spooning up his now frozen ice cream. He stopped himself, cut John a large slice of tart and deposited some ice cream next to it.

"Treacle tart. À la Sherlock." The detective said, throwing himself down opposite John.

"Oh," John looked surprised, "Thanks very much, 'Lock."

Sherlock smiled softly and curled up on the sofa, never once taking his eyes off the blond man in front of him.

"How is it?" He asked shyly after a minute.  
"S'really good," John said between mouthfuls, voice muffled by the slightly cloying treacly goodness, "Bit of salt wouldn't go amiss mind. Just to cut through the sweet a touch. But still amazing."

Sherlock chuckled, suddenly realising that he was rather the salt to cut through John's sweet.

"What?" John said, cocking his head to one side.

"Nothing," Sherlock reassured him, "You're quite sweet. That's all."  
"I was a soldier," John reminded him. Sherlock grinned affectionately.

"I know. And a doctor." He retaliated. Before John could say anything more his 'Lock had stalked over to his armchair and was kissing him hard.

"Bedtime Dr Watson."

"Lemme finish this?"

Sherlock sighed and flopped onto John's lap, whining.

"Hurry up John!"

"Alright, alright." John laughed, pushing Sherlock onto the floor. The taller man fell in a crumpled heap and looked hurt. John merely swallowed the last mouthful of ice cream, and picked him up again. They stood there for a moment, tangled in each other's arms, swaying gently, each looking lovingly at the other.

Sherlock eventually pressed his lips to John's again, licking the treacle from his mouth and relishing the taste of ice cream, tea, and John.

"Thanks for the tart, love." John mumbled.

"Bed?" Sherlock said again.

"Yeah." John said quietly.

He giggled softly as Sherlock grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up the stairs.


End file.
